


The Last Hurrah

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Cancer, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Euthanasia, Experimental Style, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Growing Old Together, Hurt/Comfort, John Has a Beard, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Love, M/M, Old Age, POV John Watson, POV Third Person, Parentlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Smut, Some dialogue only parts, Suicide, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-16 11:05:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16952817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: "I--- I won't mock you, John. How could I? I--- God, I wish I was better at this! You're my everything, John. From the day we met to this moment right here – breathing was never boring when you were around."Who would you die for? And what would you do if you had one week left?I have no idea how this happened. It was in my head and needed to come out. It's sad fluff, if that's a thing. Also, old people getting it on. Read at your own risk!If you like this, leave me a comment - comments are <3!





	The Last Hurrah

**Monday**

"Are you comfortable, love?" John asks and cups Sherlock's face in his palm, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb. Slowly. Tenderly. "Are you warm?"

They're naked, snuggled up under the duvet, with the heating on full blast, but Sherlock gets cold so easily these days.

"Yes," Sherlock mumbles, and John can tell he's doing his best to smile. "I am. You're here. That's all I need."

John's heart breaks at that, and he leans down to kiss him on the lips. "I'll never leave you."

"Hold me," Sherlock replies, his lids sliding shut, and John pulls him closer against his side and puts his arms around him, holding on as tightly as Sherlock's frail body allows him to.

The candles he's lit and put up all over their bedroom bathe the two of them in their warm, golden light, making everything look soft and shapeless, and as John stares out of the window and at the dark evening sky, he sees the first snowflakes of the season beginning to fall, illuminated by the orange glow of the lonely street lamp burning outside their cottage.

He hopes the bees are okay.

"It's snowing," he murmurs into Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock opens his moonlight eyes again and follows John's gaze.

"Looks beautiful," he remarks lowly.

John takes in his gaunt features, his bald head, the bony hands resting, one on top of the other, against his chest. He's like a tiny bird, fresh out of the egg, without feathers, and without protection.

"I love you," he says. " _You're_  beautiful."

Sherlock sends him a crooked grin. "Liar," he breathes and closes his eyes again.

John kisses his brow and doesn't answer. Maybe his comparison is faulty, he thinks. Sherlock's feathers won't grow and eventually turn him into a beautiful, proud creature that'll one day spread its wings and fly away. He shed them all during a long, laborious and completely pointless treatment that's left him weak and a mere shadow of his former self, at least on the outside. How John had wanted him to be like a phoenix, dying just to be reborn, strong enough to overcome the threat of the cruel, merciless disease that was trying to take him from him. He'd been hoping for so long.

Life is not a fairy tale.

Sherlock lost his hair, his gorgeous salt-and-pepper curls, first. Then he lost his appetite, and the little weight retirement had put on him as well. He lost his strength. In the end, when it became clear that nothing they did made only the slightest difference, he lost his will to keep fighting. And that was that.

He's off his meds now, and sometimes he eats. John cooks him whatever he asks for, whenever he wants, and wishes for his hair to grow back, because Sherlock misses it so much, but he knows that there won't be enough time for that. Sherlock is too proud to wear a wig. At least he's still got his eyebrows and lashes - "Otherwise I'd look like Voldemort," he used to joke when he still thought that he could beat it, and that they'd be okay.

One week.

Sherlock is hurting; John knows that very well, even though Sherlock makes every effort to bite back the pain when it washes over him, to be strong and not let on that it's getting worse by the day.

It doesn't make any sense to go on like this.

So they talked, the day Sherlock decided to stop going to the hospital, and made a plan, and John is scared, but also so, so relieved. He doesn't want Sherlock to suffer any longer, and he himself is tired, too.

So tired.

It should have been him, really, before Sherlock. There are twelve years between them, so it would have been only natural for John to have to go first. Parkinson's disease and the mild stroke he suffered at the age of seventy-one have robbed him of the steady hand he used to be so proud of in the past, but the deterioration of his nervous system has been progressing more or less slowly so far and hasn't affected his everyday life all too much yet. He just keeps getting older, and his hands keep shaking a little more each year, while Sherlock is fading away before his very eyes. He's got enough energy left to support Sherlock, now that he can hardly keep himself upright most of the time, but before the day they got the diagnosis, he'd always thought it would be he who'd wither first, lose his muscle strength, his coordination, his mind.

And yet, there he is, Sherlock Holmes, the love of his life, the remaining hours of his life slipping through John's fingers like sand, and he hates it, but there's nothing he can do.

They've talked it all through, time and time again, and John is glad. He's made his decision, and he's felt a lot calmer ever since.

Sherlock is falling asleep in his arms now; John can tell from the way his breathing is evening out, and he closes his own eyes, too, and inhales his scent, his  _Sherlock_ , filling his lungs, his whole being with him until he's overwhelmed with longing, with a love so fundamental and inexplicable that he feels like he might die from the sheer force of the emotion. He'll never let him go. They are one, unable to function without the other one around, and nothing is going to change that. 

"My man," he whispers against Sherlock's smooth scalp, feeling his body heat warming his lips. "My darling. My love."

Sherlock doesn't react. John holds him, caresses his skin, keeps him warm. He doesn't allow sadness to come.

Soon. No more pain for Sherlock. No more fear for John.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock keeps asking him.

John is sure.

They made their wills long ago. They put their papers in order and decluttered the cottage so as not to leave Rosie and her family with too much chaos to sort through afterwards. They gave away personal effects they don't need anymore and put the rest in boxes that Sherlock labelled with the names of their loved ones in his bold, slanting handwriting. They wrote letters and put them on top of the boxes. John put the password to the private section of the blog in Rosie's letter; Sherlock included a very detailed guide to bee-keeping in the one he wrote to his eldest granddaughter, in the hope she might take up the hobby he's always cherished so much.

They've already paid for their funeral. They'll be laid to rest in the Holmes family tomb in Highgate - _because you_ are _family, John._ John still wonders if Mycroft would approve.

They've said goodbye to Molly and Greg – they don't have many friends, at least not many they'd want to tell about what they are going to do.

The only people left to confront with their plan are their family.

John's thoughts wander forwards and into the future, to the next day, and a cool wave of apprehension washes over him. He'll tell Rosie tomorrow. He's almost sure how she's going to react, but he hopes he'll manage to make her see the reasons why he's doing this, to make her understand, at least so much that she won't hate herself for not intervening.

They won't let  _anybody_  intervene.

There's one week left, and then it'll all be over.   

And it'll be alright.

**Tuesday**

"Oh God. Oh no."

John watches his daughter try to comprehend what he's telling her and wishes he could make it easier for her, and he feels guilty,  _so_  guilty, for hurting her like that, but he knows there's no other way.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. But he's in so much pain. He wants it to end."

"No.  _Daddy_."

She looks up at him, and suddenly the little girl she used to be is sitting there right next to him on the couch, blonde and blue-eyed, her face so much like his own that he sometimes, after looking at her for too long,  had to shake himself in wonder –  _he_  made her. She's so beautiful, and she's a part of him. How did he do that? 

He shuffles over and puts his arm around her, and when she leans her head against his shoulder, he kisses her hair.

"I know. Sshhh…" he whispers. "It's okay."

"What about you?" she mumbles into his cardigan, and he dreads the words that will follow now, the shock, the incomprehension. "You--- where are you going to live? Will you--- be okay?"

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself.

"Darling…" he starts, but trails off, his head empty now, all the carefully thought-out words forgotten.

He's lost.

She slowly raises her head then – it must have been something in his voice. Their eyes meet, and John sees that she knows.

"No," she says, her tone metallic. "Daddy."

He bites his lip, racking his brain for something to say. "Rosie, listen---"

"No." She lets go of him and jumps up, drawing herself up to her full height and glaring down at him, and the effect doesn't get diminished by the tears now forming in her eyes. If anything, they make it worse. "No!"

It's tearing him apart.

"Sweetheart. I want to go with him. I'm  _going_  to go with him."

She shakes her head in disbelief. John can't tell if she's angry or desperate. Or both. It's probably both.

"Why--- why are you telling me that?" she asks shrilly. "Are you--- I don't know, are you asking for my permission? Because I'm not going to give it!"

He inclines his head, willing himself to stay calm. He has to make her see reason –  _his_  reasoning, at least.

"No, Rosie," he says softly. "I'm not asking for your permission. This is going to happen, no matter what you say. Do you see? Do you see why I'm not asking you for anything but to please,  _please_  try and understand why I can't stay and let him go alone?"

She crosses her arms in front of her chest, building a wall between them.

"No!"

"Of course you do," he replies. "You have no hand in this whatsoever. You'll never have to blame yourself for doing or saying something that you'll regret later."

She snorts.

"I'll be blaming myself for not stopping you!"

He tries to smile, but he can tell it turns out twisted and wrong.

"You couldn't stop me, sweetheart. I love you. I love Peter and the kids. But your father… I'm not whole without him. I'd never be happy again, and you know it. I've tried it once, and it almost killed me. And you also know what will happen if I stay. This---" He holds out his shaking left hand. "This will spread. It'll take over my body, my mind, more and more, faster and faster, until all that's left of me will be a tottering, demented old fool. I don't want to go like that, Rosie."

"I'd--- I'd take care of you! I'd never let you deal with it all on your own."

She's grasping at straws by now, and somehow he senses that she knows it, too. He raises his hands in a placating gesture, hoping against hope that she'll sit back down, that she'll allow him to touch her, to hold her. He wants to hold her so badly.

"I know that, and I'm grateful," he tells her. "But I don't want it to happen like that. I want to do it on my own terms."

The tears are there now, running down her cheeks, leaving glistening trails on her pale skin.

"What about me?" she asks, her voice shaking. "What about your grandchildren?"

John swallows. This is the hardest part.

"I'm sorry, Rosie. But I--- I  _have_  to. You're strong, and you have a family. You'll be alright. We--- we wrote letters to the kids, to read when they're older. They--- they'll understand. They're so smart."

She sniffs. Then, to John's immense surprise, she sits down beside him again.

"It's not fair," she says, sounding defeated.

He thinks about taking her hand in his, but refrains from doing so. It's too early for that, and he doesn't want to scare her off again. He also couldn't bear being rejected.  

"No, it isn't," he agrees. "It's terrible, and cruel, and I'd give everything to change the way things are. To make your father better. To be stronger. But I can't. And I can't live without him. I'm sorry for hurting you, for leaving you. You have to believe that. But I've made up my mind, and I hope you'll forgive me one day."

They're silent for a while, staring into the middle distance. John feels like a stranger in his own home. He thinks of Sherlock, out there with his bees, and wonders if he's cold.

"Did he ask you to do it?" Rosie then asks, the question slicing through the quiet air, lashing at John's heart.

"No!" His voice is sharp, hard, and he sees his daughter flinch in response, but he needs to make this clear. "Don't you think he talked me into it. You mustn't think like that for  _one_  single moment. He tried to talk me  _out_  of it. He keeps asking me if I'm sure. Don't  _ever_  assume that he's to blame, Rosie."

She opens her mouth to answer, but before she can do so, a third voice joins the conversation.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says lowly.

John closes his eyes. The last thing he sees is Rosie's head, turning in the direction of the door.

His own breath is the only thing he can hear.

_In. Out._

_In. Out._

It lasts forever.

"Papa," Rosie whispers after what seems like hours.

The couch seat dips and springs back when she gets up.

John is catapulted back into the past, and their untidy living-room at Baker Street appears in front of him, as clearly as if he was standing right there amidst the mess of experiments and scattered papers and toys littering the floor.

Rosie was a toddler, and she'd only recently begun to speak her first words –  _Dada, Shello, bee, bo-wing, no_  – when it happened. They'd been in a hurry to leave for a case and were collecting everything they needed to drop her off at Mrs Hudson's, and when Sherlock bent down to pick her up, she clung on to his arms and said: "Papa."

Pa _pa_ , stressed on the second syllable – a bit old-fashioned and very posh, just like the man himself. He laughed at Sherlock's dumbfounded, awestruck face, and at the proud way Rosie smiled when she noticed that she had obviously done something extraordinary. Sherlock, visibly shaking himself out of his stupor, told him to forget about the case then, and that it wasn't urgent, and asked him to go downstairs to tell Mrs H thanks, but they'd be fine.

He did, and when he got back, he found Sherlock standing by the window, Rosie in his arms, rocking her back and forth, talking to her in a low voice and kissing her blonde, downy head.

"Dada!" she said when he approached them, and he pointed at Sherlock and asked, just to make sure: "Who's that, Rosie?"

Sherlock blushed. John found him incredibly handsome with that translucent pink hue creeping along his cheekbones and up to his temples, even more handsome than usual, which said a lot, because they'd been only together for a few months then and in that early phase, almost everything Sherlock did was endearing and fascinating and beautiful to John. Rosie frowned at her father, apparently upset with him for being so dense.

"Papa!" she repeated and pointed at Sherlock as well, and it sounded slightly irritated.

"Okay," John said and nodded.

They never found out where she had picked up the word.

John buries his head in his hands, forcing himself not to cry. Where have those days gone? They seem to have rushed by so fast. Rosie has children of her own now, a husband, a  _life_. And he himself is old. He wishes he could go back, only one more time, for one more day. Be young again. Protect his daughter from all the harm in the world. Run beside Sherlock, through the night, though the rain, and kiss him against the wall of the staircase of 221B.   

They're hugging now; he can tell. Sherlock is breathing through his nose, loudly, the way he does when he's in pain, and Rosie has started to sob into his shirt.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmurs again. "So sorry, little bee. I'm sorry. Please--- forgive him. Forgive  _me_."

John opens his lids again, but doesn't turn around. It's private, this moment. He wants to protect Sherlock from taking the blame for his decision, but still he doesn't dare interrupt whatever is happening between the two people he loves most.

"It's taking my brain, Watson," Sherlock continues quietly. His palms make a whispering sound as he strokes her back, maybe her arms, too. "Before long, I won't remember my name, or your dad's, or yours. Most days, it just… hurts. Everything hurts. I can't do it anymore. I wanted to win; please believe me. I tried so hard. But I can't. I can't go on, my sweet girl. I'm sorry for--- giving up. I'm sorry I'm taking John away from you. I'm---  _sorry_."

His voice cracks, and John's tears rise up inside him and spill over before he can prevent it. A small whine bubbles out from between his lips, despite his efforts to stay silent.

"Dad," Rosie says, still crying. "Dad, come here."

He shakes his head. He can't. He feels so guilty, so sad, so  _wrong_.

"John, please." Sherlock's softly spoken words float over to him, caress the sore spot inside him. "Come, John. Please."

He gets up, seeing their living-room through a veil of tears, and makes his way over to where they are standing. Sherlock lets go of Rosie with one arm and puts it around his shoulders, and Rosie grabs his cardigan with one hand and holds on to it as if she never wanted to let go again.

"I'm sorry," John presses out, and then, for the first time in weeks, he gives in to the pain and begins to sob.

It's loud, and desperate, and he's embarrassed by it. He doesn't know what to do, and he's tired of being strong. His world is falling apart.

"Rosie," he whimpers. "I love you so much… I'm so sorry!"

He's shaking violently and gulping for air, unable to gather his composure. He knows he's asking for too much, too soon, but he dreads the thought of ending his life in the knowledge that his daughter hates him for doing what he knows is the only way.

"Sshhh…" Sherlock whispers against the top of his head. "Sshhh, my love…"

Rosie's hand comes up and cups his cheek, and John shivers at the touch, his breath hitching. She swallows and looks at him out of sad, wild eyes.

"Daddy… It's okay. I--- I shouldn't have shouted at you… I'm sorry. I'll--- I'll  _miss_  you---" She breaks off as new tears constrict her voice, and it hurts his heart to see her like this. "I love you," she adds after a brief pause. "I always will… No--- no matter what."

John sniffs and wipes his face with his sleeve.

"Rosie---"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock suddenly talks over him. "I don't--- feel well." He sways and leans onto John more heavily. " _Sorry_ ," he repeats in a strange, small voice.

Then his eyes roll back in his head and he faints.

\---

John is glad that Rosie was present when Sherlock slumped forwards, a dead weight that, despite his thin frame, would have been difficult to catch if he'd been on his own.

They carried him to the couch and laid him down, and John held up his legs, and he came back around again almost immediately.

"Sorry," he said again when he woke up, and then: "I'm tired."

He's sleeping now, there on the couch, wrapped in a thick woollen blanket, and John and Rosie are in the kitchen, having tea.

"He's weak," she says.

John clasps his left hand in his right to hide the tremor (it always gets worse when he's upset) and nods.

"He doesn't have long. I'm--- Every time he goes to sleep, I'm scared---"

He stops talking, not sure if it's right to burden his daughter with his fears on top of everything else. She puts her fingers over his, and his hand begins to tremble even more severely.

"Tell me," she whispers.

John presses his lips together and takes a deep breath.

"I can't lose him without saying goodbye. Not this time," he then says lowly. "I'd--- I'd die inside. I--- can't bear the thought of losing him. I'm…  _so_  scared, Rosie. I'm--- not finished. I need to tell him so many things, hold him, apologise to him for things I did in the past. I'm terrified I'll never get the chance."

She nods, wordlessly encouraging him to speak, and suddenly something inside of him breaks open and words flow out of him, words he's never said to anybody, not even to Sherlock. Rosie doesn't know what happened when Sherlock "went away" for two years. She doesn't know, even though, hadn't it been for those two years, she probably wouldn't exist today.

And so John tells her, because he has to keep himself from going insane, and because it's her history, too. He talks for almost half an hour, and she doesn't interrupt him. He talks about his years without Sherlock, about their fights when he returned, and about the reasons Sherlock had for leaving him, and then they just sit together in silence, sipping cold tea, still holding hands.

"Did you love my mother?" she eventually asks.

He's surprised how little he minds her asking that question and wonders whether he should have talked to her about it long before now.

"I did," he replies, because it's true.

She sends him a crooked grin that, bizarrely, reminds him so much of Mary that it gives him a twinge.

"But not like you loved him," she says, sounding sober.

He sighs, looking for the right words to explain the most complicated relationship he's ever had.

"Sherlock and I fell out with each other over your mother's death, and over his relapse, but… I think even if she hadn't done what she did--- I mean to say---" He bites his tongue. He can't tell her that Mary shot Sherlock, that she almost killed him. He just can't. She doesn't need that fact weighing on her soul – it would change nothing if she knew. "Even if she hadn't died, we would have separated eventually. It probably would have happened later, because I wouldn't have left her caring for you on her own, but--- I loved him the whole time. I did everything to hide it, from myself and from him and from the rest of the world, but it would have happened either way. I'm--- I'm lucky it wasn't too late when I realised."

"Why?"

It's time to tell her; John knows. This is his last chance to come clean. And yet it's difficult to look into his own flesh and blood's eyes and admit the things he'd rather choose to forget.

"Because I did terrible things, Rosie. I was a--- a bad person back then. Violent. Aggressive.  _Cruel_. I hurt him, and then I left him, knowing that he had hit rock bottom and would never be able to get up again all by himself. I needed others to tell me to get myself together again – your mother was one of them. I'm not sure whether she knew about the depth of my feelings for Sherlock, but she knew I would never be happy without him in my life. She'd foreseen that she might not live long and left both of us a message – and we did as she said. We talked, and worked, and after a while I moved back in with him. The rest is history."

His hand is shaking so badly now that it makes the table wobble a little, and John feels colour rush to his cheeks. He's ashamed of his own body betraying him like that. Rosie tightens her hold on him.

"I wouldn't be alive if you had known he was not dead," she says, and now there's something else in her voice – something hollow, something _bad_.

John hates the sound of it.

"I don't know, Rosie," he answers thruthfully. "I'm sorry. I just--- I don't know. All I know is that I'm eternally grateful to have you in my life. I wouldn't change it for the world."

He can tell she's not done yet.

"If you could go back---" she starts, and he pulls his hand out of her grasp and uses his right one to press it against his own chest. Even his arm is shaking now, and he clenches his teeth and wills his muscles to obey.

" _Rosie_ ," he cuts her off. "I love you more than I can say."

She shoots him a look that causes him physical pain, and he's shocked by how much _more_ she looks like her mother now.

"You love Father more. You'll _die_ for him."

She's right in a way, a way she can't possibly understand, but she's also so, so wrong.

"I love him  _differently_ ," he tries to explain. "Rosie… What if--- what if it was Peter? What if you were both old, and the kids had their own families, and you knew that each day without him would only bring despair and heartache and slow decay? What would you do?"

Her shoulders twitch upwards in a defiant shrug.

"I can't imagine that."

He nods. He needs to stay calm now. Maybe it's not too late to make her understand.

"I'm happy you can't, and I hope you'll never have to find out what it feels like. But please understand why I'm doing this. I'm not… dying  _for_  him, Rosie. I'm dying _with_ him, because if I didn't, then the moment he'd be gone, my life would just… stop. I'm selfish – I know that. And I'm sorry, but I can't bear the pain. I know what it's like; I know what  _I'm_  like without him. He tried to convince me otherwise, Rosie, so many times. But I've made my decision, and I won't change it. I'm really sorry. You've got to believe me. I really am."

She looks down at the table, mute for a moment. Then she raises her head and nods.

"Stop apologising, please. I--- I'll need some time to process all this. And we'll need to give the kids a chance to see you one last time, even if they won't know…"

Her almost business-like tone falters, and she blinks rapidly a few times. John isn't brave enough to lean forwards and touch her face. She looks so desperate, and he's the reason for it.

He'd imagined this would be hard, horribly so, but reality is much, much worse.

"Visit us on Friday," he says quietly, trying to keep himself from pleading with her. "Take the day off and come over, all four of you. We can do something nice. It will be a family day. Please. It would--- mean the world to us."

She purses her lips.

"I'll talk to Peter. He's been very busy, but I'm sure he'll make time. I--- I need time to think. Will you be alright if I leave now?"

She gets up, avoiding his gaze. He rises as well.

"Of course. Text me when you get home, just so I know you've arrived safely."

_And please, just look at me._

"I always do."

She doesn't look at him.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want to, after all this."

When she finally meets his eyes, the look in them is raw and pained and hits him like a punch in the gut.

"I love you, Dad," she says and touches his hands, which are still clasped in front of his chest. "Tell Father I love him when he wakes up."

John cherishes the brief contact, new hope flooding his heart.

"I will. I love you too, sweetheart. I'm sor--- I mean, I'll talk to you soon, yes?"

She nods.

"Yeah. I'll call you about Friday."   

**Wednesday**

"Are you alright, love?"

"Yes, I am. Thank you. It's just--- I had quite forgotten how loud this city is. How fast."

"You used to love that when you were younger."

"I know. Living in the country for so long has had its effect on me, it appears."

"Do you want to go home? We don't have to stay if it's too much."

"No, it's alright, really."

"You're ready?"

"I am."

"Alright. Off to Baker Street."

\---

"It looks just the same from the outside. There's our living-room window."

"Would you like to go up to the flat?"

"We can't, John."

"We can. I called the tenants last night and they said it's okay. They're at work right now. We can have a look if we want."

"I--- I don't know. Would _you_ like to go upstairs?"

"Yes. This is the place where--- where my life started, Sherlock. Everything before was just… a prelude. I think I want to say goodbye."

"It's decided, then. Do you have the keys?"

\---

"They changed the wallpaper."

"They probably thought it was too old-fashioned. But they didn't fill the bullet holes. You can still feel them underneath. Give me your hand. Here… see?"

"Yes…"

"Mrs Hudson was furious when you did that. The first time, I mean."

"She still left us the house."

"Well… she loved you."

"Remember when she found out that we didn't need the second bedroom anymore?"

"You mean when she caught us in the act on the living-room floor? About… here?"

"Yes."

"You're extremely beautiful when you laugh, you know?"

"Stop it, John."

"Hm… _Make_ me."

\---

"Wait."

"John, what---"

"I've been dreaming about kissing you against this wall one last time for ages… ever since we moved away, in fact…"

"Oh…"

"Staircase kisses were among my favourites, you know… I think I remember each and every one of them…"

"John…"

"The tender ones before work… the breathless ones after coming back from the chase… the _desperate_ , frantic ones when we almost didn't make it up the stairs…"

"The wet ones on rainy nights…"

"Oh, God, _loved_ the wet ones."

"Me too."

"Kiss me, Sherlock. Kiss me like there's no tomorrow."

"Technically speaking, John---"

"Oh God, I love you, but you _have_ to shut up now… Come here…"

"Mmmhhh _… okay…_ "

\---

"I'll never forget you standing up there."

"And I'll never forget seeing you look up to me… hearing you call my name… hearing you _scream_ … It was the worst day of my life. The worst day."

"Why did you want to come back here, Sherlock?"

"Because I wanted to say sorry."

"You've already said sorry so many times, and I forgave you long ago. You know that."

"Still… I'm _sorry_ , John."

"I love you, Sherlock. I forgive you. You did it for me, for all of us. Please forgive me too, for not seeing that when you needed me to. I was blind, and stupid, and self-absorbed. I--- wasn't worthy of you, your friendship, back then. You were loyal. I wasn't."

"You're wrong."

"We've already established that we agree to disagree in that respect. That was about thirty-five years ago, darling."

"I know."

"This building is where we first met. It's where you solved dozens of cases, helped hundreds of people. Let's keep these memories and get rid of the rest."

"I can try, John. For you."

"You're shivering. Are you cold? We should go somewhere warm to rest a bit, hm? What about a cup of tea?"

"I want to go to the graveyard… and then home. I'd rather have tea at home."

"Okay. Let's go, then. We can buy some flowers for your parents, Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson on the way. And afterwards, I'll take you home."

"I'm so tired, John."

"I know, love. Come on. There's a cab."

\---

"So… how do you feel now? Better?"

"Yes, John. Thank you for this day. The fragments of our past… so many of them are connected to London. It was a good idea to go back."

"It was important to me, too. And--- I've got a surprise for you. If you feel up to it, that is."

"What is it?"

"I've reserved a table at Angelo's for tomorrow night. If you want, we can go and have dinner there. I thought--- well, it's sort of where it all started."

"John… I'd love to."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I am. I'll take a nap in the afternoon. I'll be alright."

"Okay. Good. I'm--- glad."

"You're blushing, John."

"No, I'm not."

"Oh, but you are."

"That's just the heat in here. Hand me the--- sponge. I'll wash your back."

"If you say so."

"Stop smirking."

"Of course."

"…"

"John?"

"Hm?"

"I'm looking forward to our date too."

**Thursday**

"And a candle for the table – it's more romantic."

Sherlock grins up at Angelo, his eyes sparkling in the flickering flame of said candle, and clears his throat.

"Thank you," he says warmly.

John shivers at the soft sound of his voice.

Angelo, looking polished and proud as always in his black suit, smiles broadly.

"What would you like to eat? Pick anything! Anything on the menu, on the house. For you… and your date!" he says exuberantly and winks at John, who chuckles and fidgets with his napkin, wondering where you can still get gold teeth nowadays.

They've never made reservations here before, so John gets why the old chef assumes that something extraordinary is being celebrated, but on Monday, when he called and arranged for "their" table to be set and waiting for them at eight o'clock tonight, he didn't expect Angelo to recreate their first dinner in minute detail. He wonders if Sherlock likes it like this, or if it makes him sad.

He himself doesn't know how to feel yet – this  _is_  a farewell, after all, one of many, and he muses on how bizarre it is that all of this will still be here a week, a month, a year from now. The tables, the chairs, the bottles of expensive wine behind the bar, and Angelo, ancient, but seemingly indestructible, as well.

And he and Sherlock, they'll be gone.

Maybe that  _is_  sad.

Sherlock puts his hand on John's knee under the table and squeezes it, gently pulling him out of the downwards spiral that's been threatening to sweep him away.

"We'll need a moment to choose. But some red wine would be nice. Your best one. Never mind the price."

"Special occasion, yes?" Angelo asks and puts one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, the other one on John's. "Anniversary?"

"Something like that," Sherlock replies lowly, and John is surprised that he doesn't sound wistful at all.

Angelo looks at Sherlock for a long moment, and something in his eyes tells John that he's understood.

"Take your time," Angelo says. "I'll be right over with the wine."

\---

John's spirits rise considerably over dinner.

Sherlock amuses him by deducing a few of their fellow diners, talking more animatedly than he's done in weeks, and John watches his lips move around the words and his hands draw ideas into the air and basks in the aura of energy that's surrounding the other man tonight.

They have truffle risotto and red wine, and it's delicious. John wonders whether it's really that good or if it feels like that because his body knows that it's the last time it's going to taste it, but stops thinking about it after a while, because Sherlock seems to be enjoying it all so much and keeps eating enthusiastically until his plate is empty, which hasn't happened in a long while.

He even wants dessert.

"You were quite straight-forward the first time we were sitting here," Sherlock says as he puts a spoonful of tiramisu into his mouth. "Asking about my love life and all."

John laughs. They've never addressed this particular moment, not once in all those years, but somehow it feels right to do it now.

"Yeah," he answers. "And you left me hanging.  _Married to my work_ , my arse."

Sherlock's Cupid's bow twitches in a minuscule smile.

"I freely admit that I panicked," he quips. "I'm sorry I was being stupid. I should have--- I mean, it's not that I wasn't infatuated with you right from the beginning. I was. But I missed my chance."

John shrugs.

"Can't be helped. I didn't give you much encouragement to change your mind in the years that followed. I'm sorry, too."

"We wouldn't have Rosie if things had gone differently," Sherlock points out. "I think it was supposed to be like this."

John suppresses a grin.

"Sherlock Holmes – do you believe in fate all of a sudden? You're not allowed any more wine."

Sherlock doesn't reply, but just licks the last blob of tiramisu off his spoon, making a show of it, and raises one eyebrow.

"Tease," John says lowly. "Wait till I get you home."

"What are you going to do to me once we get home?" Sherlock wants to know, blinking at him in mock innocence.

When they left the cottage a few hours ago, John wasn't prepared for the flirting, but he's not going to let Sherlock's good mood go to waste.

"What do you  _want_  me to do to you?" he asks, giving his voice an air of seduction. "I'm open for suggestions."

Sherlock bites down on his bottom lip, looking incredibly young for a second or two. His irises have turned dark; they're almost all pupils.

"I want to take a bath with you. A nice, long bath," he says.

"With candles and bubbles?" John teases him, smiling.

Sherlock blushes, then nods.

"We'll use my honey bubble bath. And scented oils. And all the candles we can find."

John, serious again, reaches across the table and for Sherlock's hand, which is resting next to his wine glass. Entwining their fingers, he says: "I'm so glad you're feeling like this tonight, my love."

Sherlock looks at him, his expression open and relaxed.

"I've read about it, John. It's quite common to feel an improvement like this shortly before--- before the end. Something like… a last hurrah."

John purses his lips. He's not going to give in to despair again. There's no point.

"Well… We'll make the best of it, then," he says. "A bath it is. And what about a bit of snogging in the back seat of the cab on the way home?"

Sherlock caresses John's knuckles with his fingertips.

"Let's get the bill, John."

\---

"I hate the way I look," Sherlock says, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. He sounds hollow, hopeless. "I  _hate_  it."

John steps behind him and leans his forehead against the taller man's shoulder blade. He keeps his hands to himself, guessing that he might need a bit of space until the feeling has passed. They  _did_  spend most of the journey to Duncton kissing and holding hands, and John is thankful that the driver humoured them, but now that they're naked and getting ready for their bath, he senses that a shadow has fallen across Sherlock's soul.

"I know," he says. "But you'll always be beautiful to me."

"Love is blind, they say," Sherlock replies bitterly, and John looks up again to stare at Sherlock's reflection.

"I do love you. But I'm not blind. Look at your eyes, Sherlock. Really  _look_. Your beauty is not all superficial. I know you don't see yourself the way I do, but I really wish you would. You're my beautiful man, and you'll always be."

Sherlock presses his lips together, and it looks almost defiant.

"Human brains don't work like that, John. It's  _all_  superficial."

"Well, then I reckon you don't find  _me_  attractive anymore, wrinkly old git that I am," John snaps before he can stop himself.

Sherlock gapes at him, looking taken aback rather than offended, and John takes a deep breath to gather his composure. He knows he has to tread carefully to avoid this evening going downhill from here, but he's also determined to make Sherlock understand what he means to communicate.

"Listen, Sherlock. Did I find your looks attractive when we first met? Of course I did! You were the most beautiful thing I had seen in a long time, maybe ever. But I fell in love with your mind, your brilliant brain, your layers and layers of confusing personality, with all your quirks and faults, and with your  _heart_. You are so much more than--- than cheekbones or curls. When I slept with you, I always made love to  _you_ , not only to your body."

Sherlock misses a beat.

"You  _loved_  my curls," he then states lowly, but the tone of petulance in his voice is fading.

John puts his arms around him, purely on impulse and glad not to be rejected when he does, and sighs into the crook of Sherlock's neck.

"I did. But I love what's inside  _more_ , okay? I understand why you're unhappy, and you're entitled to mourn the things this disease took from you, but I want you to know that it doesn't matter to me. I know I can't really show you the way I used to when I was younger, but I hope you're aware of the fact that I still fancy you. I'll never stop."

Sniffing softly, Sherlock turns so that they can hug properly, and John pulls him close and kisses his cheek.

"Even now?" Sherlock asks, barely audibly. "After me throwing up on you, after--- after watching me soil myself and then having to clean it all up?"

John nods, his lips brushing the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Even now," he whispers. "Always."

They are quiet for a while, safe in each other's arms, and the tension crackling in the air around them dissolves slowly.

"I  _do_  still find you attractive, John," Sherlock then says, and it sounds guilty. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."

John grins to himself and nuzzles Sherlock's collarbone, trailing his lips along the graceful slopes that are standing out too sharply, making Sherlock shiver in response.

"Do you admit defeat?" he mumbles into the kiss. "I never thought I'd live to see the day."

Trembling fingers come up then to trace his ears and card through his beard, and he hears Sherlock swallow.

"Let's prepare the bath, John. I want to--- be with you."

\---

They're in the bath now, John sitting behind Sherlock, their slippery limbs sliding against each other and fitting themselves into spaces they haven't occupied in a while.

"Good?" John asks into Sherlock's ear once they're settled.

"Mm-hmmm…" comes the sleepy reply.

John smiles.

"Enjoying the bubbles?"

"Enjoying  _you_ ," Sherlock says and puts the back of his head on John's shoulder. "Hmmm… This is nice…"

John wraps his arms around Sherlock's upper body, feels the warm water caress his skin. The scent of honey and lavender fills the hot, damp air around them. Sherlock has indeed collected all the candles he could find, and they are the only source of light in the room right now, giving a comforting, soft quality to everything and smoothing out hard edges and lines.

"Do you remember when we used to do this at Baker Street?" John asks. "The bath was about half the size of this one."

Sherlock chuckles silently, shaking a bit in John's embrace and making the water ripple around them.

"Yes, I remember… We made do, though, didn't we?"

John, reminded of risky acrobatics and the ensuing frantic attempts to stop overflowing water from drenching Mrs Hudson's ceiling that then replaced a well-deserved afterglow, kisses the crown of his head.  

"God, we did. We  _so_  did."

Sherlock's fingers entwine themselves with John's in front of his chest.

"Mrs H got quite the show sometimes. Shameless, we were," he says, amusement palpable in his tone.

John smiles and nips at the shell of his ear, enjoying the small sigh of pleasure that provokes.

"I loved watching you lose control," he tells him. "My reserved, collected man… letting go so wantonly when touched the right way…"

With a sound very close to a purr, Sherlock moves into John's kiss, encouraging him to do it again.

"You knew where to touch, that's true…" he replies, and suddenly his voice is deeper, throatier.

"Still  _do_ , in fact…" John corrects him and administers a playful bite to the nape of his neck. Then he pulls his hands out of Sherlock's grasp and moves them down and across his stomach, teasing his navel on the way. "May I…?"

Sherlock moans lowly and nods, his lids fluttering shut. "Yes," he rasps. "Please."

John rubs his thumbs into the creases of Sherlock's thighs, increasing the pressure until he feels his lover's body start to writhe with impatience, and then he uses one hand to gently grab and knead his testicles and the other one to give his half-hard penis a slow, deft stroke from base to tip and back again.

"Ah," Sherlock groans. " _Mmhh_. John…"

John's heart is pounding against his ribs.

"I'll take care of you, darling… God, you're so sweet like this…" he murmurs and gives him another stroke, eliciting another soft groan that causes warmth to spread in his insides.

"Please, please…" Sherlock rambles. "Oh,  _please_ …"

He's almost incoherent already, and John knows that that's a good sign. He wants it,  _needs_  it tonight, and John is going to give it to him.

There's only one thing that could make this any better.

"I really wish I could see your face…" he says. "Feel like turning around? Letting me watch you…?"

Sherlock nods his consent wordlessly, his chest heaving with deep, silent breaths. John lets go of him and straightens up, pulling the other man's limp form into a sitting position in the process.

"Okay, my sweet. Come here… I'll help you."

They manage to turn Sherlock around without him having to get up, and John grabs one of the thick towels they've laid out to dry themselves later and places it over the edge of the bath on Sherlock's end to give him something soft to rest his back against. It's soaked through almost immediately, but John doesn't care. He wants this to be perfect for Sherlock. 

"Lean back, love… Yes, like that…" John runs his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs, which are now framing his sides, and feels the other man's muscles relax as he leans back against the towel. "Is that comfortable?"

Sherlock smiles through the half-light.

"It's perfect," he says.

John licks his lips and takes him in and realises he wants to give him anything he wants tonight,  _anything_  at all – even if he won't be able to really participate, at least not apart from giving Sherlock pleasure.

They don't have sex regularly anymore, have tried sleeping together only a few times since they found out about Sherlock's cancer. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't, and they abandoned the idea halfway through. Sadness, pain, fear, and exhaustion often dampened their enthusiasm, and, as hard as he finds it to admit it, John's age seems to have taken its toll at last. They used to be all over each other when they were younger, but now this wild, insatiable desire has slowly but steadily turned into something new, something much calmer and quieter. Instead of having sex they now cuddle a lot, on the couch or in their bed, and kiss, sometimes for hours on end. But most of the time it doesn't go any further.

John thinks it would probably have happened either way – his body doesn't obey him the way it used to in the past, and even though he still  _wants_  Sherlock, he finds it more and more difficult to get aroused in the proper sense of the word.

Right now, however, Sherlock seems so eager, and John feels a tingling spark of lust ripple through his middle at the sight. It's a pleasant feeling, and he wants more of it. All that he can get. It might be the last time, after all.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" he asks. "What do you need?"

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobs up and down and he pierces John with a look that sets his whole body on fire.

"Touch me…" he says, already sounding a little out of breath. "Taste me. What--- what  _you_  want, John…"      

"My love," John whispers and bends forwards and down, sliding his palms under Sherlock's buttocks to hoist him upwards a little.

When Sherlock's hardness breaks through the water's surface, it's covered in foam, and John grins and blows the weightless bubbles off his skin. Sherlock shudders and laughs. The sound reverberates in the small, candle-lit bathroom, and John thinks it's one of the most heart-wrenching things he's ever heard.

"I adore you," he tells Sherlock, who is holding on to the edge of the bath on both sides now, and then he takes him into his mouth to softly lap at the plump, rosy head of his cock.

"Mmhhh," Sherlock hums. " _Oh_."

 _I've missed this_ , John thinks wildly as he goes a bit deeper, running his tongue around Sherlock's shaft, which feels so familiar in his mouth, every ridge and vein having been mapped out a thousand times, every sensitive,  _perfect_  spot having been found and explored.  _God. I never realised how much I've missed this._

Sherlock tastes of honey and lavender, which is not unpleasant, but John wants the real thing, so he bends down as far as his back allows him to and sucks the way he knows the other man likes it, determined to keep at it until the only taste left on his tongue is  _Sherlock_ , salty and a little bitter and so deliciously familiar. 

After a minute or two of doing exactly that, John notices that Sherlock has gone very quiet. He raises his eyes and finds him propping himself up against the sides of the bath, white-knuckled and wound up as tight as a spring, his mouth open and panting silently, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in what looks like concentration. He rubs his tongue along the underside of his cock one last time, ending with a small nip at the sensitive spot right underneath the crown, and then lets him slip out to straighten up again.

"Getting tired?" he asks him softly, and Sherlock sighs loudly and opens his eyes to look at him again.

"A bit," he answers hoarsely.

"Lean back again," John says and lowers him back into the bath so that he can stretch his tense muscles. 

The change in Sherlock's body language and expression becomes apparent immediately - his features relax into a grateful smile, and his hands let go of the bath and sink into the water to come to rest on his stomach.

"Sorry… I'm not as strong as I used to be," he murmurs and bites the inside of his cheek in an uncharacteristic display of shyness.

John shakes his head and trails his palms along his sides, then up to his chest. Finding his nipples, he flicks them with his thumbs, and Sherlock trembles in response.

"I'll use my hand instead," John tells him as he caresses down Sherlock's front, tracing his ribs with his fingertips. "I love touching you…" 

When he reaches the place he's aiming for, Sherlock doesn't look embarrassed anymore. He's lying there spread out in front of John, his breathing accelerating at the first contact of John's hand with the silky skin of his penis, and John grins and grips him tightly to feel his blood pulse through his veins.

"So beautiful," John rumbles.

Sherlock sobs out a low moan and grabs John's calves, maybe to ground himself, and bucks up and into the touch.

"Keep talking to me…" he begs breathlessly.

John is only too happy to oblige. Sherlock is not big on talking dirty himself, but he has always loved being praised and teased with words when they're together like this, and John loves doing it to him.

"Mmhh, God, Sherlock… You drive me out of my mind; you're so perfect like this…" he says in a rough half-whisper he's sure Sherlock won't be able to resist. "You're so hard for me tonight…"  He's caressing him slowly, taking care to loosen his grip on the down-stroke to alternate between firm and gentle, and Sherlock falls apart more and more the longer it lasts, trying to set a rhythm with his hips, whining impatiently when John doesn't follow. "Sshhh… not so fast… I love your beautiful cock… I want to make love to you all night…"

"John…" Sherlock is looking at him from under heavy lids, breathing loudly, his thighs quivering against John's sides. " _Please_ …"

Despite his pleas to go faster, John keeps up his rhythm, his pressure, since he doesn't want it to end too soon, or ever. Sherlock is letting go of everything, he can tell when he looks at his face, and it's the most mesmerising thing to witness. In any other situation, Sherlock would sneer at meaningless expressions like "I want to make love to you all night" -  _That's impossible, John; we're too old for that, and even when we were young our refractory period was---_  - but, as John found out early on in their relationship, sex is the only thing that seems to be able to switch off the part of his brain which is responsible for cold, clinical thinking.

"Yeah, Sherlock, my love… Let go for me… Show me how good it feels…"

When Sherlock closes his eyes and smiles at the ceiling, giving himself over to John's ministrations without holding back, John suddenly sees the man he used to be, that graceful, otherworldly creature with creamy skin and raven hair, a Greek statue come to life, something so breathtakingly beautiful that John could never really fully comprehend why he chose _him_ , of all people, to share himself with. In Sherlock's blissful smile, in the curve of his luscious lips, he sees all the times they laughed together, all the times they cried, all the times they fought and made up. He sees ecstasy and lust, insanity and grief, adrenaline and pain.

Encompassing all that he sees  _love_ , the love of his life, greater than anything he's ever known, and he's  _so_  thankful that he's had this, has been allowed to hold it in his hands, his arms, for almost forty years, that he doesn't know how to deal with it.

His heart bursting with emotions he doesn't have names for because they are just too momentous to describe, he closes his eyes as well. He feels like crying, like  _shouting_ , like doing something that will ease the pressure inside his chest, but then Sherlock's hand is there, grasping his, so very gently, and keeping him from continuing to stroke him, and John jerks out of his helpless reverie and looks at him, wide-eyed and surprised.

"What?" he breathes.

Sherlock doesn't answer, but slides closer ever so slightly, and when his behind comes into contact with John's groin, he realises that he's hard, too. Very,  _very_  hard.

An erection like that hasn't happened for such a long time that John finds it difficult to process what he's seeing and feeling, and more difficult still to come to a conclusion as to what to do with it, now that it's there.

"I want you," Sherlock says, rocking his hips slowly, deliberately, dragging himself all along John's length – up… and down. A long, hard shiver runs through John's body. "All of you," Sherlock adds, his eyes blazing, as if his meaning hadn't been obvious before.

John swallows.

"Are you---" he starts, but Sherlock doesn't let him finish.

"I'm alright," he replies, and really, his voice sounds firm. No trace of pain. His cheeks are flushed, and his gaze is clear. "I feel  _good_. The last hurrah, John, remember? I want you. Please."

John hesitates. The idea is tempting, but he isn't prepared.

"We don't have any lube," he points out. "I don't want to hurt you."

Sherlock grabs and holds up a bottle of almond oil, half full after he's just added a liberal amount to their bath water.

"What about going natural?" he asks and smirks.

John huffs, but returns the grin and takes the bottle from him to unscrew the cap.

"This requires some careful logistics," he jokes.

Sherlock holds his gaze and rises to slip onto John's lap, giving him comfortable access to the places he needs to reach, and John supports him with his legs and slicks up his fingers, his grin turning into a slightly incredulous smile.

"I--- can't believe we're doing this. I'm seventy-six, for God's sake," he mutters as he puts the bottle aside again.

Sherlock leans forwards and makes their mouths collide, and they kiss like they used to do when they were young and their love was fresh and new and all-consuming, all tongues and teeth and  _hunger_ , until their lips are swollen and, in Sherlock's case, sore from rubbing against the coarse hairs of John's beard. When they break apart again, they're both breathing fast.

"You're so beautiful, John, so  _wonderful_ ," Sherlock sighs against John's mouth, their foreheads pressed together, and it's so unlike him to speak like that that John's heart skips a beat. "You make me feel things I'd never dreamed of feeling before you came along and showed them to me. Thank you.  _Thank_ _you._ "

"Baby," John says softly, and he can't remember the last time he called him that. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Come on now… Hold on to my shoulders."

Sherlock does – he's so  _light_  – and John, keeping their faces nose to nose because he can't bear the idea of separating just yet, slips his right hand between them to nudge Sherlock's opening with the tip of his middle finger.

"Oh God," Sherlock whispers. "Oh John. Yes."

His large hands are gripping the back of John's neck by now, and John revels in the feeling of connectedness this gives him.

"Relax," he rasps, overcome with emotion, and pushes in slowly, feeling the other man's heat envelop his finger, feeling him shiver and breathe around the intrusion. "That's it, love… Let me in."

"Yes," Sherlock repeats. "Please… _More._ "

John doesn't need any more encouragement than that. Carefully, he moves his finger in and out in small, shallow thrusts, and with each and every one Sherlock's body opens up to him a little more. The sensation of his muscles gripping him, throbbing around him, is divine, and John has to clench his teeth against the onslaught of desire, of impatience it evokes in him.

"I want to be inside you," he breathes. "God--- you feel  _so_  good…" 

"Mmhhyesss…" Sherlock slurs and bears down on his hand as if to spur him on. "An--- _another_  one, please, John…"

John bites his lip, hard, to keep himself in check. He wants to align himself with the body that's convulsing around his finger in time with the waves of pleasure running through the man sitting in his lap, wants to push in in  _in_ , but of course he knows Sherlock needs more preparation than this. He'd never risk hurting him.

"Patience, my love…" he tells Sherlock and himself in equal measures and pulls back to let his index finger join the proceedings.

"Oh," Sherlock mouths, but no sound comes out.

"Good?" John asks, pushing in deeper, a bit faster than before, and Sherlock nods emphatically, causing their noses to bump against each other.

"Don't stop," he sighs. "Don't ever--- stop."

"I won't," John tells him, his heart aching with affection. "Never."

It takes Sherlock a bit longer to accommodate to two fingers – "Sorry… out of practice…" – and John does his best to make it worth his while. His hand seems to have a mind of its own, remembering exactly where to touch, where a crooked finger or some rhythmic teasing will feel exceptionally good and make Sherlock jerk and tremble in his half-embrace, and he's thankful that his tremors are usually focused on his left side. His right hand seems to still possess the skills he needs to methodically take his lover apart, and he's determined to make good use of that.

"John," Sherlock growls after a few minutes of him very obviously enjoying John's attention have passed. " _Nghhh._ "

It's supposed to be half-warning, half-plea, but it sounds nothing but outright wanton and  _desperate_  – John is sure that his younger self could have come from listening to it alone.

"Soon," he coos against Sherlock's mouth. "You're being so good for me… so sexy, baby…"

Sherlock chuckles helplessly, and there are tears in his voice. "John… I  _need_  you now… please,  _please_ …"

His voice fades out at the end, and a surge of possessive power John hasn't felt in ages almost overwhelms him with its intensity. Sherlock rarely ever begs. Hearing him do it in such an uninhibited manner tonight makes John go insane with pride and desire.

"Are you ready…?" he asks, just to make sure.

"Yes…  _so_  ready…" comes the slurry reply.

They kiss again, slowly and deeply this time, and when they break the kiss and stare at each other, Sherlock looks more beautiful to John than he has in a long time.

"Sit back for a moment," he says, and Sherlock lets go of him and does so to give him room to slick himself up with another handful of oil.

He's watching John's every move, and John finds himself flustered. Those eyes. He'll  _never_  get used to those eyes. And he doesn't want to.

"Come," John tells Sherlock when he's finished and pulls him into his lap again.

It's easier than he's anticipated – Sherlock leans back and lifts his hips, baring his long, white neck in the process, and John finds himself  _there_ , right there at the entrance to the place he wants to go so badly, and then he slides inside, slowly, steadily, and Sherlock shakes in his arms and moans and bites his lip to stifle the sound.

"Let go… I've got you…" John pants. "You--- don't have to hold back…"

Sherlock is shivering from head to toe now, and John's body remembers the feeling. It used to happen sometimes, after a long foreplay, after the exchange of many  _I love you_ _s_ and  _darling_ _s_ and tender kisses, and he almost cries out in bliss when Sherlock's buttocks finally make contact with his loins and they're  _together_ , as one, connected as deeply and intimately as humanly possible. 

They stay like that for an endless moment, Sherlock's head falling forwards again to rest against John's, their arms slung around each other tightly, fingertips pressing into wet skin.

Trying to breathe, and failing.

" _Oh_ \--- God--- We haven't done this for  _far_  too long," Sherlock then gasps.

John wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He runs his hands up and down Sherlock's back, up to the nape of his neck and the back of his head, and feels himself lose control.

"Can you--- can you move, darling? I--- Oh God, you feel so  _good_ … I love you. I love you  _so_  much.  _Oh_  God…"

He's rambling, but he can't stop himself, and Sherlock lets out a long hum right next to his temple and starts to rock against him, tiny movements that shouldn't feel so impossibly great, but somehow do, and John sobs and tries to meet them with small thrusts of his own.

"Ah, oh  _John_ ," Sherlock breathes. "Oh, oh,  _oh_ …" 

The momentum of their movements makes water slosh against the sides of the bath, some of it spilling over the edge, but neither man pays it any attention. Sherlock clings on to John for dear life, his face pressed against his cheek, and John wants to stay like this forever and listen to him moan and pant and feel him move on top of him.

Sherlock's cock is nudging his stomach with every thrust of his hips, and John reaches down and between them to wrap his fingers around it.

"Let me---" he starts, but Sherlock gently pushes his hand aside and bites the shell of his ear.

"No need," he sighs. "I'm---  _good_ …"

John puts his arm back around Sherlock's shoulders and presses a long, hard kiss against his neck. He's always envied his lover a bit in that respect – he's never found it as easy as Sherlock to come without extra stimulation.

"You're amazing," he tells him, and there's no envy involved in it whatsoever today – Sherlock deserves this, deserves to feel this kind of pleasure, and he'll do everything to keep it coming to him. "You're---  _gorgeous_ , love…"

He closes his eyes and gives himself over to the rhythm – Sherlock is so hot inside that the still warm bath water seems almost cool in contrast, and John drowns in the sensation, his whole middle pulsing,  _burning_ , a knot of lust tightening inside of him, ready to unfurl, to explode. Sherlock's breath is loud and warm against his temple, and his fingers are in his hair now, carding through the short strands, pulling a little from time to time.

They keep it up for a few minutes, not changing their pace because it's perfect like this, and John forgets to speak and give Sherlock the loving, dirty words he loves so much since he has to concentrate very hard on  _not coming, not now, not so soon_  – he wants to draw it out, to enjoy it for as long as possible, and he wants Sherlock to get there first. It's an almost trance-like state, this back and forth between them, their synchronised moans, the soft sounds of skin slapping against skin, accompanied by the occasional splashing of the water against the bath and floor. John loses track of time, exists only in the moment. Everything around him is just Sherlock, Sherlock,  _Sherlock_. 

"Say my name," Sherlock suddenly gasps. "John, please,  _John_ … say my---  _name_ …"

John opens his eyes, alert again in an instant.

"Sherlock," he whispers and thrusts faster. "Sherlock--- my love…  _Sherlock_ …"

Sherlock's arms and legs go tense around him; the movements of his hips stutter and lose their rhythm.

 _Almost_ , John thinks.  _Oh God._  

"Come, baby…  _come_ … I'll--- catch you…" he encourages him breathlessly and just keeps thrusting, going harder, knowing that his lover needs him to finish it for him now because he's too far gone himself.

Sherlock starts to cry and hides his face in the crook of John's neck, bucking against him erratically.

"I'll  _catch_  you--- Sherlock," John repeats and holds him tight. "Let _go_ …"

Sherlock presses out a low sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh and comes, his release pulsing against John's stomach and chest, so hot, and John tongue-kisses his shoulder, licks the salt off his skin, and finally allows himself to fall as well.

It takes only two more thrusts to have him follow Sherlock with a groan that echoes off the tiled walls, and he desperately tries to feel every tiny facet of the moment – Sherlock in his arms, trembling through the aftershocks of his orgasm, the way his body is still clenching and throbbing around him, the slick heat of his own seed, enveloping him as he moves through the waves of his peak. Sherlock's breath, his voice. The way he smells and tastes.

He tries to feel  _everything_.

They rock back and forth together, more and more slowly, and John feels a pleasant tingling sensation now spreading from his middle into his hands and feet.

_Bliss._

In a tiny part of his mind, he's immeasurably sad that this might be the last time he's allowed to feel this, and yet it's really complete and utter  _bliss_  to be here like this, with Sherlock, detached from time and space, the two of them and  _this moment right now_  all that matters.

After one last gentle thrust he stills, still buried in his lover's body, so deep, so warm. A long shiver runs through him.

"Oh God," Sherlock sighs hoarsely and finally slumps against him, boneless and limp, his arms and legs still slung around him, but much more loosely than before. "Oh John."

John rains kisses on his shoulder and neck, making his way up to his chin, his ear, his temple.

"I love you… I love you," he mumbles into the damp, glowing skin underneath his lips, his beard leaving faint reddish marks on alabaster white. "My darling. My sweet darling. You're beautiful. I love you. I love you."

Only when Sherlock pulls back a little and then puts his palms around his head and runs his thumbs across his cheeks, a worried look on his face, does he realise that he's crying. What the hell? He's supposed to cheer Sherlock up, not to make him feel worse.

"I'm okay," he says and blinks to get rid of the moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes, trying to keep it from overflowing. "I'm sorry, love. I'm okay."

Sherlock presses his lips together in what looks like a mixture of guilt and affection.

"I love you too, John," he says, still holding John's face, his eyes dark and intense. "I've never been good with words, but I do hope you know that. You're my all. I--- There's always been only you. Only you. Always."

John's pulse accelerates at that. Declarations of love have always been rare between them, at least coming from Sherlock, but of course he never doubted that the feelings were there in the other man's heart. Actions speak louder than words with Sherlock, and that's okay. Nevertheless, hearing him say it now touches him in the most peculiar way – he feels giddy and desperate all at once, and before he can stop himself, he says: "Don't go before Sunday."

The moment it's out he regrets it, and he's scared of the other man's reaction, but Sherlock surprises him and smiles.

"I promise," he says. "I won't leave you again without saying goodbye properly. Never again, John."

John sniffs. Leave it to Sherlock to simply command his body to  _not die yet_ and manage it. He feels better immediately. Safer.

"It's together, or not at all," he whispers, whereupon Sherlock's smile turns bittersweet.

"That is your wish, and I'd never deny you anything," he replies lowly. "Just know that you can always change your mind, up to the last minute, and I won't think any less of you and--- and our love."

John shakes his head, wordlessly, and leans in for a soft, tender kiss. When they slowly pull apart again, Sherlock nods.

"Anything for you," he murmurs.

John's heart goes out to him then, and it hurts a little, but he ignores the pain and concentrates on the knowledge that tonight they are together, and he can hold Sherlock for hours if he wants to, and talk to him, and kiss every square inch of his skin, until they fall asleep in each other's arms.

"We need a shower," Sherlock breathes against his lips, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

John chuckles.

"As soon as I can feel my legs again," he replies.

Sherlock's arms tighten their hold on him at that, and before he knows it, he's being kissed again, gently, deeply, and in the kiss he feels the words Sherlock so seldom says out loud. He drinks them in and gives back in kind, and when they finally stop and get out of the bath with aching joints and shaking knees, the candles have burned down to stumps.

**Friday**

When John wakes up, he feels disoriented. From the way the sun is shining through the cracks in the curtains he can tell that it's still early in the morning, so he didn't oversleep. Did they set the alarm when they went to bed? He can't remember. His body feels warm and heavy, and Sherlock is hugging him from behind, which is nice.

What is it that feels so weird, then?

"Mmhhh… Good morning," a low, slightly hoarse voice murmurs into his hair, and then there are soft lips nipping at the shell of his ear, a hint of teeth, and a long, slow exhale of hot air that makes him shudder from head to toe.

"M---Morning," he manages to reply shakily.

"I wish we'd woken up earlier," Sherlock whispers and chuckles. John's heart stumbles over a beat when he feels the other man grind his hips against his behind, because the thin material of their pyjamas doesn't do anything to hide the fact that he's sporting an erection, a very impressive one, considering everything that happened last night. _That's_ what's feeling weird.

He can't remember the last time they woke up like this.

"Hmmm… _again_ , so soon? What's gotten into you, love?" John asks and laughs a little, his surprise at this unexpected turn of events quickly making way for arousal.

Sherlock moans and rolls his hips again. John could swear he can feel him pulse against the cleft of his buttocks.

"You. Last night," Sherlock rasps, amusement and lust mingling in his tone.

"Sherlock…"

John reaches behind himself and puts his hand on Sherlock's thigh, squeezing it gently, whereupon Sherlock sighs heavily and kisses his temple.

"I'm sorry, John," he says, sounding more sober now. "I--- I'm not sure what's happening to me. It's late. Let's just get up and get ready."

John huffs.

"Are you insane? Don't ever apologise for a hard-on," he answers and turns around in Sherlock's embrace. "I just wasn't expecting it. Come here."

He brushes Sherlock's mouth with his, lightly, teasingly, and grabs his arse with one hand.

"John---" Sherlock starts weakly, but John deepens the kiss and shuts him up that way.

"Sshhh…" he sighs and licks between the other man's teeth, looking for his tongue.

Sherlock allows it and kisses back, but when John closes the distance between them and slips his hand underneath the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms to knead his buttock, he pulls away, panting and red-cheeked and, John thinks, looking absolutely delicious.

"John--- They'll be here in a few hours. We have to get up."

John grins and slowly, so _very_ slowly, lets his hand slide from Sherlock's backside to his front, his fingertips ghosting over a sharp hipbone, over the trail of curls starting below his navel. Sherlock freezes, his chest heaving against John's.

"If you think I'm letting this beauty here go to waste, you're _very_ wrong…" John whispers and finally puts his fingers around Sherlock's hot, hard length to caress it with light, barely-there pressure.

Sherlock's lids flutter shut and he bites his lip, clearly torn between desire and the fear of being late for their daughter's visit.

" _Johnnn_ …" he moans.

John stares at him and wishes he was younger – he knows he won't be able to join him in this early-morning adventure. Despite the tingling in his loins, he's still soft, and he's sure he'll stay that way, at least for today. Two times in a row would have been a miracle – but that doesn't mean that he won't enjoy giving Sherlock pleasure and release.

"I can make it quick if you like," he breathes against Sherlock's quivering lips. "Or I can draw it out… make you beg a little… make you _writhe_ …"

"Oh God, John…" Sherlock groans and melts into him, and John knows he's won.

"I want you in my mouth, baby…" he tells him, his voice rough and sultry, the way he knows Sherlock enjoys it. "I want to taste you…"

"John. _Yes_ …"

They kiss again, and then John carefully pushes at Sherlock's chest to roll him onto his back.

"Get comfortable, darling," he says and clambers between Sherlock's legs, staying under the duvet to keep him warm. "I love you," he adds and places a sloppy kiss on the bit of skin peeking out below the hem of his pyjama top.

Sherlock's cock bumps against his chin as he does so, and he can feel that the fabric covering it is already damp where it is stretching around his tip.

" _Fuck_ ," he curses lowly and nuzzles the place, inhales Sherlock's scent, and then he licks up his whole clothed length, gently scraping his teeth along it.

Sherlock's lower body jerks upwards and he sobs out a whining moan that carries an unspoken plea to please, _please_ get on with it.

And so John does.

He forgets the world around them as soon as his lips close around Sherlock's shaft, its silky hardness and musky taste all that he can focus on. Sherlock's thighs are trembling against him and he traps them with his upper arms to keep him from thrusting up and into his throat. He knows Sherlock enjoys being at his mercy, and he himself loves being in charge of how fast this is going to go.

He's surprised at himself and his energy – if they had more time, he really _would_ draw it out, make it last forever, push Sherlock towards the edge again and again. He's in the mood for it.

John loves giving head. He has always loved doing it, but especially since his body has started to betray him more often than not when it comes to getting it up he's been enjoying the possibilities of making it worthwhile for Sherlock without his own penis being required to join the proceedings.     

Sherlock is whimpering, groaning, restlessly running his hands through John's hair, and at some point he yanks at the duvet and shoves it aside, startling John a bit, but also giving him some much-needed cool air to suck into his lungs through his nose.

"Wanna watch you," Sherlock pants and puts his palms back over John's ears, and John looks up to see him gazing down on him with fire in his eyes.

" _Mmhhh_ …" John grumbles his approval and smiles around the slick flesh he's sucking on.

Sherlock smiles back breathlessly, and John drowns in the sight and his brain shuts itself down again. He keeps looking up and tries to tease a bit, moving up and down slowly while undulating his tongue against every sensitive spot he can find (he knows them all by heart), but soon Sherlock mewls pitifully and bucks up as far as John's body weight allows him to, and suddenly the idea of a morning quickie, such a perfectly ordinary thing, seems weirdly alluring to John.

Flashbacks of other mornings like this pass by his inner eye, mornings of days long gone. Sherlock on all fours on the bed, inviting him for a quick shag before work. Sherlock joining him in the shower, murmuring sweet nothings about masturbatory fantasies coming true into his ear. Sherlock like this, exactly like this, reclining against his pillow, staring down at him and stifling his shouts as he comes down his throat.

He'd never have thought they'd have this again.

Exhilarated by these memories, John speeds up his pace, hollows his cheeks, makes the view enticing for the man he knows is still watching him. Then he lets out a long, loud hum, feeling his own voice vibrate through their connection.

Sherlock gasps and starts to shake beneath him.

A second later he grunts an unintelligible warning, his fingers tightening their hold on John's head, and John forces himself to come back to his senses and consciously experience the sensation of searing hot liquid being poured out inside his mouth, pulse after unhurried pulse, salty and bitter and gorgeously intimate, the pure essence of the man he adores.

Glancing up again, he sees Sherlock's head loll from left to right, his expression slack and spaced-out, his eyes now closed in abandon.

"Oh God," he sighs, his deep voice trembling. "Ohhh… _John_."

John hums once more, lowly, almost soundlessly, and licks him clean with slow, careful swipes of his tongue, taking care not to turn the aftershocks that he senses are running through Sherlock's system into unpleasant over-stimulation.

"Oh _God_ ," Sherlock repeats.

John lets him slip out and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before shuffling his way up the bed until he comes to rest next to him again.

"I love you, you beautiful creature," he tells him. "That was amazing."

Sherlock blinks at him, obviously still slightly out of it.

"You…?" he asks tiredly and gestures vaguely towards John's crotch.

John smiles at him and brushes his cheekbone with his thumb.

"No, love. I'm okay. This was about you. And I enjoyed it very much. You're gorgeous."

Sherlock swallows and licks his dry lips, then nods.

"Beautiful," he whispers throatily. "Thank you."

John leans towards him and kisses his nose.

"Sleep a bit. I'll get everything ready and wake you up when it's time. Okay?"

The fact that all he gets back is a slurry _okay_ and no fuss at all tells him that the other man is indeed exhausted, and he makes sure that Sherlock's pyjamas are back in order before getting up to pick the duvet up from the floor and tuck him in again.

"Sleep, my darling," he then murmurs and runs his fingertips along Sherlock's brow, then bends down to lay a tender kiss on his forehead. "Get some rest."

The not-quite-conscious half-smile that gets him makes his heart melt. Suppressing a sigh of bittersweet affection, he turns and leaves the room.

\---

John is watching Sherlock and Henrietta, the older one of their granddaughters, from behind a leafless rose bush. They're walking around the beehives, wrapped up in their heavy winter clothes, their breath rising from their mouths in translucent clouds of white vapour.

"Do you hear that sound? That buzzing hum?"

"Do you mean the _bzzzzzzzzzzzz_ coming from in there?"

"Yes, exactly. That's the bees making sure it's warm enough for the queen. The workers flutter their wings and shiver to keep the temperature from dropping too much. They take turns doing it, so that the ones on the outside don't get too cold."

"Do they have to do that all winter?"

"Yes, they do."

Sherlock looks so tall and thin next to the little girl. The voice he uses whenever he talks to his grandchildren reminds John of the way he was with Rosie all those years ago. Even before they started being more to each other than friends and roommates, John often found himself watching the two of them from afar, feeling a strange kind of warmth spread inside his guts that he couldn't explain to himself without admitting to thoughts and emotions he wasn't ready to face yet.

"But what do they eat when there are no flowers?"

"They made enough honey when there were flowers. They have to live off these provisions now."

"Do you help them when they eat it all up too fast?"

"I do. There's honey in the shed. Big, big buckets of honey. I buy it to stock up the bees' supplies if it stays cold for too long. But usually they manage."

"Grandfather?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Do you think I could have bees too? When I have my own house?"

"Of course. Why not?"

"You can teach me all you know, so I won't make any mistakes! And when I don't know what to do, you can come and visit and help me."

John swallows against the grief sitting in his throat and senses Sherlock do the same.

"I… That would be lovely, yes. I'll tell you what – until you get your own, you can come here anytime you want and take care of my bees. Your mum and dad can help you with it. I'll make you a list with instructions. You can come even--- even if I'm not here, okay? I trust you. You can be my deputy beekeeper. "

"Can I?"

God, she sounds _so_ happy.

"I'd be honoured."

And he sounds so sad.

John sighs and turns away to go back inside and finds himself face to face with his son-in-law. He jumps a little – he thought he was alone.

"They adore each other," Peter says lowly, but there's no warmth in his voice.

John inclines his head in agreement.

"They do."

"And still you'll leave her to mourn both of you at the same time. You'll make her mother find you lying in your bed, dead, in God knows what kind of state."

John takes a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. Somehow, he knew this was going to happen – but he doesn't want to spend this last family day arguing.

"Peter," he says carefully. "I'm sorry. Believe it or not, but I really am. But my husband is going to die. It's going to be slow and painful. He'll lose all his dignity. The metastases have reached his brain, his lungs by now. He'll forget his own name – if he doesn't suffocate in his sleep before that. So I beg your forgiveness, but he's absolutely right in wanting to end it before it can get even worse."

John never calls Sherlock his "husband". They're not married – they never felt the need to. John knows Sherlock is his, and he knows that it's the same for Sherlock. John's marriage with Mary showed him that wearing a ring doesn't really mean as much as he'd always thought before he went and took the step himself. But now, with Peter, he uses the word on purpose. Peter _is_ a husband, and John knows he would die for Rosie if he needed to. He hopes that his mirroring that will make it easier for the younger man to understand his reasons.

"I've put a lot of thought into this, Peter. And I'm aware that it's a selfish decision. It's okay if you hate me for it; I understand. But I can't go on without him. How many years would I have before my own deterioration is complete? Five? Would you like your daughters to remember me like that – lying in a bed in some old people's home, having to be fed and changed like a baby? Not knowing who they are? Because that's what would happen, Peter. I'm leaving with him, because it's the better alternative. I'm sorry for hurting you, Rosie, and the kids. It's the most terrible thing I've ever had to do. But I've made up my mind, and nothing you say will change it. And as for Rosie finding us – she has _requested_ to be the one. We'd made arrangements; a friend of ours would have done it. He used to be with the police. I've given Rosie his number. He'll help."

Peter glares at him, defiance in his eyes.

"I still don't---"

"Peter. Please, don't." It's Rosie, making her way over to them down the garden path, pulling her cardigan tightly around herself against the cold and talking over him. "Let's go inside. Alice and I have made tea. We can all warm up a little, okay?"

Peter bites his lip, still looking cold and angry, but doesn't say anything more. John nods.

"You two go on inside. You're not even wearing a coat, love. I'll get Sherlock and Hettie."

Rosie takes her husband's arm.

"Come," she says softly.

John gives them a head start and then walks over to where Sherlock and Henrietta are still standing between two of the hives, engrossed in conversation.

\---

The atmosphere lightens over tea, and John is glad that it didn't need yet another long, painful talk to achieve that. While laying the table he watched Peter watching Sherlock, who was trying to pick up Alice when she showed him the biscuits she had arranged on a plate. Devoid of the strength necessary to do that, he had to go down on one knee to hug her instead, and John's stomach clenched at the sight, but he also saw Peter's eyes fill with tears that he didn't allow to fall, and after the incident the younger man's mood seemed calmer and much friendlier than before.

They talk about Alice starting pre-school and Hettie's upcoming violin concert ("Can I play my solo on your violin later, Grandfather?"), and John puts his hand on Sherlock's leg under the table and thinks that maybe it's all going to be alright.

Hettie does play the Stradivarius later, for all of them, and Rosie laughs and almost-cries at the same time, telling her not to drop it. Sherlock holds their daughter's hand all through the song, and when it ends and everyone claps, the shuddering breaths he takes tell John that he's having a hard time not to give in to his churned-up emotions as well.

In a few days, the violin will belong to Henrietta, but of course she doesn't know that yet.

Rosie insists on preparing dinner to give them some time with the kids and asks Peter to help her. Sherlock, John, and the girls retire to the living-room to play _Memory_ , which is not a lot of fun when being played against Sherlock Holmes, but the kids love it and John notices that Sherlock lets go some very obvious matches to let them have their moments to shine, too.

"What happened to _learning for life_ and _getting used to dealing with failure_ , huh?" he teases him lowly when the girls shuffle and set up the cards for a second game.

Sherlock grins mischievously.

"Old age made me soft, I'm afraid. Sentiment is taking over. Can't be helped," he quips.

John feels like kissing him then, and so he does.

The girls giggle.

\---

Time flies past after that, and suddenly it's ten o'clock in the evening and they are alone again. John randomly tidies up some of the mess they've made during the day, his head full to bursting and completely empty at the same time, but when he realises what he's doing, and that it isn't what he _should_ be doing right now, he stops and joins Sherlock on the couch.

"Hey," he says and puts his palm on Sherlock's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers, turning to take John into his arms. "And no," he adds. "Not at all."

John sinks into his embrace and holds him tight.

"Yeah," he mutters into the crook of Sherlock's neck. "Same."     

**Saturday**

It's a bad day.

John knows he should be grateful that the last few days were good ones, _really_ good ones, and he also knows that Sherlock being so strong and in such a happy and energetic mood is something he would never have expected a week ago, but nevertheless he's sad and a little disappointed when Sherlock wakes up and looks at him and he immediately notices that today won't be like that at all.

Maybe it's the echoes of the goodbyes they had to say yesterday, still lingering in the air. Maybe it would have happened anyway. Maybe that was it – their last hurrah.

He tries to smile and caresses Sherlock's pale face and kisses him on the mouth, and then he asks: "How bad?"

Sherlock shrugs and presses his lips together into a hard, thin line.

"Seven, maybe eight."

John's stomach turns. An eight. It hasn't been an eight for a while.

"I'll give you something for the pain after breakfast, okay? You can't take anything before you've eaten," he says, grateful that his voice sounds firm.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock replies lowly, and John watches the muscles of his jaw work and knows that the other man is fighting to stop himself from grinding his teeth in agony.

"I know, love," he says softly. "I know. I'm sorry. Just… a little bit, please. A small piece of toast, maybe. And some tea?"

"Alright."

Sherlock has closed his eyes again. His voice sounds resigned and impassive, but John isn't offended. He knows that Sherlock is aware of the sad fact that John is only doing what's right – he's not going to shoot the messenger.

"Good. Do you want to stay in bed or are you coming to the kitchen?" John asks.

Sherlock sighs.

"Kitchen," he answers, and then he opens his lids again and looks at John, right into his heart, with icy-blue eyes that have become much too large for his face. "Thank you, John," he croaks.

John just nods.

He can't speak.

He's scared that if he tried, all that would make it out of his mouth would be a sob.

\---

After breakfast, John takes a shower, and the warm water calms him down a little. There's no use breaking down now. Sherlock needs him, especially now that he's feeling so weak, and all he can do is try and make it easier for him. It'll be over soon – wasting the time they've got left on despair won't do either of them any good.

When he enters the bedroom to get dressed, Sherlock is lying on the bed, his head buried in his pillow. His shoulders are shaking, and hoarse, barely-stifled sobs are wrecking his body.  

"Sherlock," John murmurs and lies down next to him to put his arms around him from behind. "Sshhh…"

Sherlock turns his head and sucks in a large gulp of air, then grabs John's arms and holds on to them as if he was a drowning man and John the only fixed point in an endless sea of pain.

"I'm--- _scared_ , John," he whimpers, his voice rough from crying. "I--- I don't _want_ to die… Not _yet_. I--- These last few days made me realise what I'll lose, what _you'll_ lose… and I'm not ready! I _can't_ \--- I know there's no point, but---"

"Ssshhh… Sherlock. I know. I--- I feel the same."

John doesn't tell him that it's okay, or that it'll get better soon. That would be a lie. Sherlock sniffs, and it sounds angry.

"I'm _weak_ , John… It's disgusting."

John kisses the back of his head and sighs against the nape of his neck.

"I know you hate feeling like that. But… you're _human_ , my love. Nothing disgusting about that."

They stay silent for a while.

"Are you really scared, John?" Sherlock then asks.

John almost laughs at that, but suppresses the impulse.

"Of course I am," he answers instead. "I'm _terrified_. I don't want to let go either, Sherlock. I want one more week with you, and another one, and _another_ one after that… I wish we had the time, love. I--- I'm scared of having missed my chances of telling you how much you mean to me. Of showing you. I--- I know it's silly, but I wish I had made love to you more often when I still could. Every day. Every night. I wish I had held you in my arms, given you pleasure, told you how beautiful you are more often than I did."

Sherlock's features soften at that, and he leans back to press his head against John's shoulder.

"You did all that, John. Often. I know it doesn't feel like it now, feels like _not nearly enough_ , but we were--- we were so good together, John. _So_ good…"

He breaks off and moans, new tears running down his cheek and the bridge of his nose, and it breaks John's heart.

"We were, my darling," he says lowly, right into Sherlock's ear. "You're right. We were great together. In everything we did. I loved being your partner. Working with you. Living with you. _Loving_ you. You--- You made my world bright, Sherlock."

The shaking of the other man's torso in his arms doesn't subside.

"I love you so much, John…"

It doesn't sound like Sherlock at all. It sounds fearful and small and broken.

_My poor, darling man._

"I love you too, Sherlock. Always have. Always will. Forever."

Warm, salty droplets get smeared on his skin when Sherlock rubs his face against his arm.

"Can you stay?"

"Of course," John says. With one arm, he pulls the duvet up and covers himself and Sherlock with it, and then he draws him closer against himself again and shuts his eyes. "Of course."

\---

They fall asleep eventually, and when they wake up again, lunchtime has long come and gone. John helps Sherlock to wash and put on a fresh pair of pyjamas, then puts on his own. He can tell it's going to be a slow day, so why not stay comfortable right away?

He makes fusilli with spicy tomato sauce – Sherlock's favourite pasta – while Sherlock rests on the couch, watching _The Blue Planet_ on Netflix. During his time at the hospital, they found out that documentaries on submarine life calm him down, and John has made him a playlist of things to watch when he's in pain or restless.

"Are you hungry?" he asks him when he's finished, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says, looking guilty. "It smells delicious."

John smirks at him.

"No need to apologise. But promise me you'll have some for dinner."

Sherlock grins tiredly.

"I promise."

John makes himself a sandwich and eats it with Sherlock's head in his lap, and then they just watch TV, John feeding Sherlock with sweet tea and biscuits whenever he gets the chance.

"I'm that fish," Sherlock says after a long period of silence in which they listened to David Attenborough explaining how Japanese pufferfish attract mates by creating intricate patterns in the sand at the ocean floor.

John blinks and looks down at his lover's profile, which is standing out starkly against the dark fabric of his navy dressing gown.

"Excuse me?" he asks.

Sherlock licks his dry lips and glances up at him.

"When we met, I tried to make sand circles for you, John. Interesting cases. Murders. Riddles, deductions. From the moment you entered the lab, I knew I wanted you to stay with me. I'd have done anything to achieve that."

John laughs.

"Well… it worked. I loved your sand circles. I knew I wanted to be with you quite early on as well. I was too blind to see that this holds true for _every_ part of my life, but I'm glad you made the effort to keep me around." 

"Me too. It payed off in the end."

Sherlock smiles, and it looks weirdly pleased. John chuckles.

"Proud of yourself?"

"Very. It got me the best man in the world."

John, heart aflutter, strokes his fingertips along Sherlock's spine. Up… down. Up… down.

"I'm flattered," he says lowly. "But you're not a bad catch yourself. My special one."

Sherlock hums and nuzzles John's leg.

"I'm glad you think so. There couldn't have been anyone else but you for me."

John knows that this is the truth – when they first got together, he found it hard to believe that no one had ever successfully tried to make Sherlock his, but the younger man was so endearingly unaware of his own sex appeal, at least at the beginning, that he soon accepted the fact that he was the only one who'd ever see Sherlock like that, with his guard down and his demons gone. And it felt _amazing_.

"I'm proud, too. Of being the one you chose. _So_ proud."

Sherlock smiles again and pulls John's left hand towards himself to kiss it. John tries to stop it from shaking harder at that, but fails. Sherlock presses his lips against his knuckles, then against his palm, and holds it tight.

"Are we wasting this day, John? Sitting here, watching TV? Should we be doing… more?" he asks, his words muffled by John's skin.

John sniffs. How he loves him. More than he could ever say.

"No, Sherlock," he answers. "I really don't think so. I wish you were feeling better today, of course I do, but sitting here like this… with you… is all I ever want. As long as we're together, I'm okay. Please… just relax."

"Thank you." Sherlock doesn't let go of his hand. "I'm enjoying it, too."

"Good. Do you want to watch another episode?"

Sherlock nods, and John reaches for the remote.

"What about the one on deep-sea creatures? The creepy one?"

Sherlock laughs soundlessly.

"Okay," he whispers.

**Sunday**

Breakfast in bed, even though Sherlock can't eat.

A short walk through the frozen grass, saying goodbye to the garden, their bench under the willow tree, the bees.

Another bath, John washing Sherlock's bald head with his favourite shampoo. Candles. Resting in each other's arms. Breathing together.

Napping on the couch, waking up to watch more snow fall outside.

A little left-over pasta for dinner.

John washing the dishes, Sherlock drying them. Sharing tomato-flavoured kisses while leaning against the sink.

And then it's time.

\---

They're in bed together, lying next to each other like they always do, after any normal day, and yet _nothing_ is normal tonight. There's a small glass vial holding two pills sitting on the bedside table on John's side, a bottle of water next to it, and despite being sure that this is how it's supposed to be, John tries to ignore its presence for the time being, because he's not finished yet.

There are things he needs to say, and he's scared he'll never find the words before it's too late.

"John?" Sherlock suddenly asks, and John rolls onto his side to look at him.

"Hm?"

Sherlock reaches out and caresses the side of his face, his fingertips tracing his brow and the shell of his ear, making him shiver. The soft touch feels familiar, and the sensation calms John down a little.

"I love you."

John smiles at him.

"I love you too."  

Sherlock's lids flutter, his lashes throwing long shadows onto his marble cheeks.

"Before we do this, I need to say it one more time. I'm sorry, John. For so many things. Your life would have been easier without me in it sometimes. I've never been good at showing it, but I did notice it when I hurt you – every time. I just couldn't always get past myself and stop."

John shrugs. He's touched by this, but they've been through this particular topic before, and often.

"Ditto," he just says.

Sherlock gazes at him intently.

"John. I wronged you so many times. I got you into trouble. I betrayed you, insulted you,  _used_  you. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't do this now. You're going to die because of me."

Okay. So that's what this is about. But they've been through _this_ as well.

"Sherlock. I was alive because of you."

"J---" Sherlock starts, but John puts his hand on his chest and cuts him off.

"Sherlock, listen. I hurt you too. I abandoned you. There are scars on your body that I put there, all those years ago. You didn't have to forgive that. I'm--- I'm _so_ grateful that you did. Because since the first time we met, Sherlock, ever since that very first look, not one day has passed on which you weren't on my mind. Whether we were together or apart, I always thought of you.  _Every_  single day. And I wouldn't trade that for anything in the world. I love you. I--- I'll never have the words to tell you how much. You're allowed to mock me for this, but… you're the light of my life, Sherlock. I know you don't care about the solar system, but you're--- you're my sun."

He stops and bites down on his bottom lip, breathing hard, having talked himself into a frenzy. Sherlock swallows audibly, his Adam's apple jumping. His heart is hammering against John's palm.

"I--- I won't mock you, John. How could I? I--- God, I wish I was better at this! You're my everything, John. From the day we met to this moment right here – breathing was never boring when you were around."

Something swells inside John's chest.

"That's---  _Sherlock_. That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

A barely discernible hue of pink appears on Sherlock's cheekbones.

"You're very aware of the fact - painfully aware, I daresay - that I'm really  _not_  great at romance, so… thank you," he says, his voice shaky.  

John bends down and kisses his temple, then his cheek.

"I've always enjoyed your particular brand of romance," he replies.

When Sherlock smiles, John can feel the corner of his mouth twitch against his lips.

"I know, and sometimes I still can't believe my luck."

"It was mine, you know?" John tells him, still kissing him. "The secret glances. The smiles. It was mine alone.  _You_  were mine alone. I was so proud of that. I still am."

Sherlock slowly turns his head, and then his lips are upon John's, and they lose themselves in a long, gentle kiss.

"I've always belonged to you," Sherlock whispers into the damp space between their faces. "From that very first day. Even if I needed some time to figure it out."

John nudges his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

"It took me even longer," he sighs. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock hums and buries his fingers in the hair at the back of John's head, pulling him even more deeply into the kiss.

"We made up for it, John," he breathes. "A thousandfold." 

John stops thinking for a while.

And somehow everything becomes easier after this.

They kiss and whisper sweet nothings to each other and map each other's faces with their hands, maybe for hours, unaware of the time that's passing, and when Sherlock eventually pulls back and looks at John and nods, John knows that he's ready to go.

All the things they needed to say have been said.

When he reaches for the vial and the water bottle, Sherlock doesn't ask him if he's sure – not this time.

John shakes a pill into Sherlock's palm and one into his own.

They swallow them at the same time, sharing the water between them.

Then they settle back against their pillows, Sherlock with his head on John's chest, John with his arms wrapped around Sherlock's bony shoulders.

The last thing John sees before he closes his lids is Sherlock's upturned face, his impossible eyes twinkling at him, his soft, loving smile curving his rosy lips. The smile that belongs to him, and him alone.

He keeps the image, holds it close to his heart,

                                                            and falls

asleep.

 

 

**The End**

 


End file.
